The last time Tiffany Edens, Colleen Kelly and Danielle Tudor were together, they were young, nervous and vulnerable.

Today, more than two decades later, the three women -- each a victim of serial rapist Richard Gillmore -- met and spoke with one another for the first time, something they never dreamed they would do.

After several hours together, through tears and laughs, they described their gathering as therapeutic and found they struck up an immediate camaraderie that they're committed to fostering.

"To me," Kelly said, "it was like an instant connection with Danielle and Tiffany."

In between appearances before the media, Edens, 35, and Kelly, 41, ducked away from the reporters and TV cameras to spend some private moments together. Edens drove Kelly back to her home, introduced her to her children and to her family's large German shepherd, Smoke, named after the police dog that tracked Gillmore's scent to a field behind his home after her rape in December 1986. Then, the two women headed to downtown Portland for lunch.

"We talked a bit about Gillmore and our experiences," Kelly said. "But it was more like getting to know a new friend."

Tudor, 45, already has reached out by phone to provide support to two other Gillmore victims who shared accounts of their rapes in the past month. They've also started plotting what they can collectively work toward to make sure other women don't suffer as they did: from lobbying the Legislature for a change in the statute of limitations for rape to ensuring victims' rights aren't trampled but strengthened at parole hearings.

"Just between us," Tudor said, "there's a strength."

Though Tudor said their connection is not a "sisterhood that you really wanted to be a part of," she's committed to making something positive come from what they've endured.

"It's a healing process," she said.

Tudor was 17 when she was raped Nov. 11, 1979, in her Southeast Portland home. Kelly was 13 when Gilmore broke into her Southeast Portland home and sexually assaulted her on her mother's birthday, Oct. 27, 1980. Edens was 13 when she was raped by Gillmore in the kitchen of her Troutdale home Dec. 5, 1986.

Gillmore, now 48, was convicted in Edens' rape, and confessed to eight other sexual assaults, Multnomah County prosecutor Russ Ratto said Wednesday. Six of the victims have spoken publicly about their ordeal; the brother of a seventh victim who committed suicide eight years after the assault spoke on her behalf.

"We were vulnerable kids just doing our own thing," Edens said, seated between Tudor and Kelly at the Multnomah County district attorney's office.

Turning to Tudor, Edens said, "You wanted to be a director." Edens continued, "I wanted to be a dancer." And turning to Kelly, Edens said, "and, she wanted to be a gymnast." Gillmore robbed some of their childhood dreams, they agreed, but he also destroyed his own life in the process.

It was Edens who first spoke out publicly, fighting to prevent Gillmore's planned release last fall from prison and then addressing the parole board in June after fighting for her right to be heard. The other women followed her lead.

"It was very daunting for me and my family," Edens admitted. "It felt really good to me and my family to maybe have sparked courage with another person and another person ... because it's empowering."

The three women recalled the endless waiting in the Multnomah County Courthouse hallways before each testified at Gillmore's sentencing. They talked of how the rapes hurt their parents, who struggled with guilt at not being able to protect their daughters. And how now, as mothers themselves, they're protective of their own children. Edens shared how her 10-year-old son hid beneath a desk at school because he feared Gillmore getting out.

"He has really penetrated into all of our lives, our family, our friends," Edens said. "Now, it's my children who are being affected."

Edens shared with the other women her frustrations with the parole process. They vowed to be there for one another, should Gillmore be kept in prison but come up for parole two years from now. The state parole board is expected to make a decision this summer about whether to release him.

"Whatever lies before us," Tudor said, "we still have each other."

The women hugged before they left the courthouse but lingered together outside like old friends wanting to catch up some more.

"I'm tired," Kelly admitted, at the end of the day, "but it kind of feels like we've got a natural energy. It's almost like a 'rush.'"